


For what good is a book without pictures? asked Alice

by chaletian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaletian/pseuds/chaletian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds a magic book, sending him and Dean on quite an adventure. Points to anyone who recognises all the books mentioned!</p>
            </blockquote>





	For what good is a book without pictures? asked Alice

“Hey, Dean, check it out!” Dean Winchester glanced over his shoulder to where Sam was rifling through a mildewed box of their father’s possessions. Going through the lock-up they had found was something of a priority, given all the mystical crap John Winchester had decided to store there – at the very least they needed to know what they were dealing with should anyone attempt another theft. So the last few days they had been bedded down in a motel down the road, spending their days going through box after box of arcane objects interspersed with occasional childhood memorabilia, and their nights, in Dean’s case at least, at the local bar. In this particular instance, Sam was holding up a creaky leatherbound book with a gold clasp.

“It’s a book, Sam,” Dean said drily, taking the opportunity to crack his spine in a few places.

“But it’s beautiful, Dean – look at the craftsmanship,” said Sam eagerly, missing a bitchface opportunity in a way that made Dean think his little brother was off his game.

“It’s still a book.”

“Philistine.”

“Whatever. Found anything else in your box?”

Sam shrugged. “Just papers, and this.” He flicked open the clasp, and leafed through pages, his brow creasing in confusion. “Huh. It’s blank.”

“Musta been another journal.” Dean went back to his box. “Get a move on, willya. I don’t want to be here all night.”

Sam pulled a face. “Yeah, I’m sure you have better plans.”

Dean looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “You betcha.” He looked like he might expand on the subject, and Sam held up a hand.

“Seriously, dude. I don’t wanna know.” He stroked a finger down the spine of the leatherbound book, and felt a definite lurch of wrongness as the room around him seemed to swirl into nothingness and Dean’s shout of “Sam!”

There was a moment of black, and then they were somewhere else entirely, somewhere that most definitely was not the lock-up.

“What the fuck?” exclaimed Dean, spinning around. They were standing in a path in the woods, bright morning sun filtering green through early spring leaves.

“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” said Sam, looking around in turn. Dean shot him a dirty look.

“Thanks for that, Sam. Really. What the fuck did you do?”

“Me? Nothing!” But he waved the book at Dean, his expression a little sheepish. “Think it might’ve been the book.”

Dean just looked surly. “Oh, it might’ve been the book. Goddamn books. No more books for you, Sammy.”

Sam was about to retaliate when they heard the sound of laughter and running, and two figures came round a bend in the path and raced towards them. A boy and girl – well, teenagers, at a guess. And dolled up in some kind of fancy dress, the girl in a long, old-fashioned dress with her hair scooped into some kind of net. They were calling insults to each other, and for a moment it seemed as if they would run right into the Winchesters, but the girl noticed them and pulled up short, the boy following suit.

“Hey,” said Sam awkwardly, raising a hand in greeting.

“Hullo,” said the girl, panting slightly, and pushing back a few dishevelled strands of hair.

“Good morning,” said the boy, a little stiltedly, bowing at the waist. “I do apologise for our behaviour. We did not think anyone else would be on this path.”

Dean waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, whatever. Look, you don’t know where we are, do you? My brother and I here are a little lost.” The boy and girl exchanged glances, and the girl – whose hair seemed to have given up the idea of being confined at all and was falling round her shoulders – looked them up and down. Her expression softened.

“Are you soldiers?” She came forward impulsively, ignoring the boy’s hand on her arm. “Oh, have you been at the fighting?”

Dean’s eyebrow quirked. “You could say that. What fighting?” They both looked confused.

“The war, sir,” said the boy – no, young man, really. “The war between the states. You don’t… surely you know of it?”

“Uh, yeah. Of course,” said Sam hurriedly, seeing that Dean was just staring, mouth hanging open. “So this is eighteen sixty…?”

“Sixty-two,” said the girl, and she turned to the boy. “Teddy, do you think I should fetch Marmee? They seem…”

“Marmee!” Sam all but shouted the name, staring at them in amazement. “Not… and Teddy… are you Jo March?” The girl looked surprised, and cast a quick, wary glance at Teddy.

“Yes, sir. How did you know?” Then her eyes lit up. “Father! You much know Father! Did he…”

Sam ignored her, turning to Dean who had been watching the conversation in confusion, and gesturing at the book. “This is Little Women, Dean! I mean, I don’t know how, but it must be the book…” He flicked over the page – and the woods and the path and Jo and Teddy disappeared and there was a moment of blackness before they found themselves in the corner of a dark, smoky tavern. Dean pulled Sam down onto a low wooden bench, and snatched the book off him.

“Dude! What is going on?”

“It was Little Women! I mean, like the book, but real. Like we were in the book.”

“Little Women, huh? Is that, like, midget porn?”

Sam rolled his eyes. There was always a new low for Dean to find. “It’s an American classic, Dean,” he said patiently. “Four girls growing up during the Civil War.”

“Oh.” Dean’s gaze narrowed suspiciously. “Hey, how’d you recognise it anyway?”

“So, I wonder where we are now?” said Sam, pointedly ignoring the question. So what if he’d shed a tear or two during the film when Beth died? Anyone would have done the same. At least he hadn’t sobbed like Jess. Dean, distracted by the here and now, looked around.

“No clue, but it looks like they’re serving alcohol.” He stood up and gestured towards a woman who could only be described as a wench, only to bump into a man coming up behind him, tankard in hand. It sloshed all over his already grubby tabard, and the man swore. At least, Dean assumed it was swearing – whatever he was saying, it definitely wasn’t in English. He shrugged at the man, and grinned. Which was, apparently the wrong move, as the man drew a sword. A big sword, sort of shiny with… was that blood on the blade? Dean backed up a step, feeling Sam standing behind him, and raised his hands in the universal gesture of “dude, don’t stab me”. The man was talking away, but Dean didn’t have a clue what he was saying, and he shrugged.

“I think he’s demanding satisfaction,” whispered Sam.

“I don’t care if he’s demanding three hookers and a helping of apple pie! Get us the fuck out of here!” returned Dean out of the corner of his mouth, never taking his eyes of the sword-wielding man, who had been joined by a couple of other men, wearing identical tabards and, from the look of it, identical swords.

“Give me the book!” Dean passed it behind him, and then there was black again as Sam turned the page. This time they were on a grassy hill, and there were no swords. Which was definitely a plus. Dean collapsed onto the grass, and glared up at Sam.

“So, Einstein, how do we get out of this one, exactly?”

Sam shrugged, and sat down beside his brother, carefully placing the book on the grass between them.

“Wish I knew.” He heaved a sigh, and stared at the book. “Maybe… we go somewhere else each time I turn the page. Maybe we just have to get to the end.”

“So flick ahead,” said Dean impatiently. “Open it at the back.” Sam did. Nothing happened. “OK. So a page at a time. It’s just books, right? How bad can it be?”

As he spoke, there was a sudden clattering and screeching and what appeared to be an entire army appeared on the brow of the hill. Dean and Sam leapt to their feet, turned… and were nearly knocked flying as a girl ran past, bow and arrow in hand. A boy followed, shouting “Susan!” after the girl, and suddenly, from the trees from their right, a lion appeared, roaring terribly.

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Dean, backing away involuntarily. Sam grinned, but flicked the next page before they could get caught up in the battle.

This time, they were in a town, down a dank alley where sewage ran freely down the middle of the cobblestones. A man in a long black coat strode past, an ugly expression on his face, and two poorly dressed men followed some way behind. “’E’s a right mean-hearted bastard,” said one to the other, as Sam flicked the page again.

Landscapes came and went, some familiar, some not. A rocky outcropping with two midgets and another one who looked like he might once have been the same, their eyes all alight with a kind of madness… an impeccably dressed man complaining that his was the iron rod that ruled his own household, dammit, and Aunt Agatha could just go hang, and maybe they could catch the twelve-oh-four to avoid her… a crystalline lake with brown- and flame-clad schoolgirls lazing on its shores, and one of them, with short, sharply cut hair, jumping up to exclaim “Great Caesar’s bathmat!” as they appeared out of nowhere… a man and woman dressed in academic gowns in a quiet, dark cloister, who paid no attention to anything but themselves…

“Only one more,” shouted Sam, as they materialised in a windy, frozen wasteland, the only sign of humanity a giant balloon hurrying northwards. He turned the last page, and they were somewhere quite different, at once normal and suburban, and horribly oppressing. There was a heavy pulse that seemed to run through everything, and it was hard to turn away, hard to think, hard to _be_…

Sam reached the last page, and flicked it over, and then they were done. Finished. Back in the lock up.

“Huh,” said Sam, staring down at the book in his hands. Dean grabbed it, and tossed it into the open box. He taped it up, till the top was covered in the yellow ribbon of a crime scene (hey, Dean got his stationery where he could find it), and scribbled on the top a warning that it was ‘seriously freaky shit – do not open’. That done, he looked up at Sam, standing sheepishly in front of him.

“Dude. For real. No more books.”

 

THE END


End file.
